A Mother's Love
by Love the Brightest Star
Summary: "My mother saved me." — Barty Crouch Jr had been destined to rot away in Azkaban, and so he would have, had it not been for his mother. This is the story of the woman whom few remembered, but whose blind, unconditional love for her son led to the series of terrible events with which we are so familiar.


**So friends, here's another little piece for you. Please and review. Oh and by the way, a very Merry Christmas to all of you in advance. :)**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.**

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 **A Mother's Love**

Silence reigned in the large, lavishly furnished, dimly lit parlor of the Crouches' manor. Absolute, deathly silence. There was no rustle of the heavy curtains made of rich fabric, no tinkle of dishes on the glass-topped table, no crackle from the dying fire that burnt in the hearth. The very breeze that blew into the place through a gap in the tinted glass of the window panes made no sound. To a passing glance, the desolate room might have appeared empty. But it was not. A woman in her fifties sat, silent and still, in a large armchair. Her hair was turning silver, and prominent signs of illness and premature ageing dominated her rather plain features. She looked but an outcast in her perfect, regal surroundings.

No one who saw Maria Crouch would say that she was beautiful. Her looks were certainly not captivating; to put it bluntly, one would say that she was 'wispy'. Dirty-blonde hair, short stature, frail, fragile features — that was her. But although she had not been blessed with beauty, she had the power to love. And love she did, her husband, her son. People had been surprised, shocked, even, when a rising, ambitious man as Bartemius Crouch had married her, a nonentity, but it would be a lie to say that their marriage wasn't happy. Barty loved her, and she loved him too. She had helped him reach his dreams, touch his ambitions. She had been the hand behind the curtain that had always supported him. She herself was content to stay back and see to the house and home. She had small dreams, small aspirations, and that was how things went.

They had had a son. Such a sweet child. They had named him Bartemius too, after his father. Maria had known very few treasures in life, and little Barty was her greatest. She had loved him and cared for him like no other. He was her everything.

Maria picked herself up from the chair and walked painfully over to the door. A hacking cough escaped her, shattering the reigning silence. She was ill. Very ill.

Her eyes fell on the series of framed pictures on the wall, showing a little boy grow into a young man. She sighed. Poor Barty. Her Barty. What had he done to deserve his fate?

She still remembered the day well. She had just been about to retire to her bedroom after finishing her embroidery work on a cushion cover (it was one of her little hobbies, something she did now and then to pass off her time) when a rather authoritative knock had sounded on the front door. Trusting Winky to answer the door, she had not raised her head from inspecting her work. But after a minute or so, the little house elf had come in looking very frightened, with two wizards in tow. Their uniform told Maria that they were Aurors. She had got no time to ask them for an explanation; it had come on its own.

"Mrs Crouch," one of the men had spoken. He had a deep, grave voice. "We are here to arrest your son, Bartemius Crouch, Jr, on the charge of being a death eater." He had procured a document with the ministry seal for her to see. His word had hit her with the force of an unforeseen hurricane. She could only sit and gape in silent horror and shock as the men went deeper inside the house. Stunned in her seat as she was, with the impact of the news making it difficult for her to keep herself from swooning, she failed to notice that the arrest warrant had the sign of her own husband on one corner.

It was only when the men came back into the drawing room with a struggling and swearing Barty and a whimpering Winky that Maria regained some of her senses.

"Mother! Mother, they are trying to take me away! Please, mother, don't let them. I'm innocent!"

"Stop this!" she had screamed. "You have no right to take him like that." She had held fast to one of the men's arms.

"We are from the Ministry, ma'am," the man had said coldly, as if it explained everything.

"My husband won't hear of this!"

The other man smirked, and held out the warrant in front of her.

"Look at this, madam," he had sneered. "This is your husband's signature. It was he who ordered your son to be arrested and sent to Azkaban."

Yes, there was no mistaking that curved writing. It was Barty's all right. But it made no sense. Bartemius... Innocent... Azkaban...

Maria fell to the floor in a dead faint.

She had practically accosted her husband when he staggered home from the Ministry, looking ill.

"What did you do to Barty?" she had almost screamed.

"He is locked up in Azkaban," he had said with a completely neutral expression, as if he were talking about any random death eater, not his own son.

"How — how can you —" she was at a loss for words. "He is your own boy!"

"Stop. Just don't. Don't talk about him," he had said, his voice cold, dead. "He is no son of mine."

The words had struck her like a bolt of thunder; she had never heard her husband talk about her son like that. She seized him by his collar.

"How can you?" she cried. "Sending an innocent boy to prison, your own son —"

He had laughed a bitter, hollow laugh.

"Innocent?" he was almost in hysterics now. "Innocent? Do you even have an idea what he has done?"

And then they had come — the tidal waves. The series of terrible news. One after another. Barty had worked for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. He had tortured the Longbottoms with the Lestranges. Little Barty, her son, was a Death Eater.

She didn't know what to think, what to feel. All the dreadful thoughts and emotions raging in her minds, she couldn't hold it anymore. She sank down to the floor on her knees. Her son was gone. That was the foremost thought on her head. Her son was going to face the fate that was sentenced to the very worst of people — Azkaban, cold, dementors...

And Bartemius wasn't doing anything about it. His face told her that. He was doing nothing to save his son from the hell that awaited him. Why, it was he who had ordered the arrest. She gave a hysterical burst of laughter at the irony, even as well tears ran down her cheeks.

But she could still plead. Plead with him, sway him like she had so many times before. And so she did.

"You can't let him go like this!" she had cried, wringing her hands in despair as her husband sat, stony-faced.

But he hadn't listened. For once, all her pleading and tears fell on deaf ears. He didn't even react to her words. The maximum he did was earn his son a trial. A trial which was held three days after that painful day.

And what a trial it was! She had sat in her appointed seat beside her husband, silent and trembling as the grim proceedings began. She had watched with mounting horror as the dementors brought in the accused — the three Lestranges and her son. The look on Barty's face was enough to break her heart, it was so pained, so hurt, so... dead. She had hoped, hoped in vain, that the trial would bring some positive results. But the jeering of the rest of the courtroom, the vehement support for the punishment of the prisoners had made her heart sink to her stomach. And all that time... Barty, oh Barty! The poor boy had shivered and wept throughout, and as she heard the spectators curse and shout, she wanted to ask them, "Do you have no heart? Can you not do anything to save my child? He is only a boy!" But the courtroom would have shouted that it was she who was heartless to support a nasty criminal, so she remained quiet and only sobbed her heart out. And as the trial ended, as the dementors dragged her son away, so white and frightened, as her son begged to his father to not send him away only to have him yell that he was no son of Bartemius Crouch Sr, little Barty, her son, pleaded with her to save him for the second time within a week, and Maria watched, powerless, incapable of helping him in any way, she did the only thing that was left to her — she fainted.

The week concluded; the worst week of her life so far. Maria Crouch was drowning. She tried to grasp at the straws — anything to believe that Barty was not what people were making him seem. But no avail. Her son was taken away from her, carted off to Azkaban; she watched him go with her own eyes. And Maria could never erase the image of his frightened, white face, which had been burnt into her mind forever.

The house fell silent after that. The air became heavy with depression, as did Maria's heart. Bartemius was hardly ever at home; he was working hard to get back the reputation which his son's deeds had cost him. Maria no longer cared for household work; it was only because of Winky's hard work that the bed was still made after a night's sleep, and the food was served warm. Admittedly, Barty had not spent much time in the house previously, anyway, but Maria, being the loving mother she was, sorely missed his little moments, his snarky jokes and even his arrogance laced with a little of cruelty. She was his mother, and to her, he was still the little boy she had nursed on her lap, who had cried at night until she sang him to sleep.

Her health deteriorated. The constant stress that she suffered, the incessant worries of her son's welfare, made her hair grey early; it made her body a home to some obscure disease that slowly, ever so slowly, began killing her. It made her weak, it made her frail. The healer said that it wasn't any specific malady, simply a cause of excessive stress, and would be cured soon enough if she relaxed. But how could she, when she knew that her Barty was slowly dying out under the terrible effect of the dementors, locked up in his horrible cell in Azkaban?

And so she remained like that, imminent death approaching her with slow, steady steps every day. Bartemius took out as much time from his work to care for her, and Winky worked tirelessly to keep her mistress well. But her death wasn't too far, only Maria knew that.

Supporting herself by the wall, Maria walked over to her husband's room. He was home today on leave. She found him reading a letter by his desk.

"What is this?" she asked.

"A letter from the Azkaban authorities," he replied gruffly, hardly looking up from the paper. "They say the boy is ill. They have allowed us a visit to him, if we want."

It wouldn't have taken Maria even a second to know who was 'the boy' he was talking about. Her heartbeat quickened. Barty was ill. Was he dying? She had to hold on to the desk to stop her knees from buckling at the sudden onslaught of coughing that came over her. Her head throbbed. Her son, so young, was wilting away. She had to do something.

"I suppose we are going?" she asked, forcefully nonchalant.

"I myself have no wish to," he said. "But I think you would want to see him. I'll be sending them a reply tomorrow."

She nodded, no more speaking, forcing herself to calm down. Even as she stood, steadying herself, her brain worked faster than it ever had. Maria Crouch had always prided herself on her thinking skills and strategic planning, but she couldn't remember her brain working so vigorously before, or with so much desperation. Half-formulated ideas, absently thought plans and products of restless dreams all came together to give rise to a master plan. It was perfect. No one would ever know.

"We are going to get him out." She drove straight to the point.

He looked startled. "Are you insane? He is a criminal. And it isn't even possible to escape Azkaban."

"Yes, it is," she said, her eyes shining with a brilliance that had seemed long lost. "I know how." And she whispered the plan in his ear.

"It isn't right," he said. "What you are suggesting is illegal, plain lawlessness. Why should I do this? He was a death eater. He worked on the wrong side, and paid the price."

"Do it for me," she replied, her eyes imploring. "If you don't care about him, care about me. I can't live after seeing him die, Barty. I can't see him like that. I am going to die soon." She raised a hand to stop his protests. "Yes, I know I am going to. But I can die in peace knowing that he is alive and well, Barty. Give the boy another chance. If you love me, listen to me this once. Do this for my sake."

He looked deeply troubled, but after a painfully long silence, he sighed heavily and nodded.

"Very well," he said. "You won."

She smiled at him broadly, and kissed him chastely on the lips.

"I knew you would agree," she whispered. "Thank you."

Things happened smoothly after that. The polyjuice potion arrived in due time, and not a soul other than the residents of the Crouch Manor found out anything about it. The day of their visit arrived soon enough. Bartemius looked grim.

"I am doing this only because of you," he said to her, his voice trembling with suppressed emotion. "I love you."

She smiled a bittersweet smile, happy at her son's forthcoming escape, while her heart grieved her separation with her husband in equal measure. "I know. I love you too."

They travelled over to the remote, desolate island wherein was located the place that held all of Britain's convicted criminal (at least accused of being so) wizards. They had not even reached the island when the depressing atmosphere began affecting Maria. The cold, biting wind, combined with the salty spray of the sea, made her shiver in her cloak. _Everything will be all right,_ she assured herself. _Barty will be safe soon. That is all I want._

If the way to Azkaban had been terrible, the place itself was worse than her worst nightmares. It was cold, damp and muggy. The cold and hopelessness exuded by the passing dementors made her have second thoughts about visiting the prison. How would she even survive one day in there? But she thought of her son, and holding on to the determination given off by the thought, she steeled herself for the job.

The journey to Barty's cell seemed to take forever. The screams and insane ravings of the prisoners chilled her down to the bones. Her coughing fit became more frequent and painful. Bartemius paused, looking at her anxiously, but she motioned him to go on, plodding along with him with barely suppressed discomfort.

At length they reached the small, dingy cell which was their destination, and Maria felt her heart stop as she looked at the occupant. Barty was almost unrecognisable; his hair, which used to be sleek and neatly combed, was a mess of limp, matted locks. His sharp jawline was covered in a clumsy beard. And his eyes — they held in them a manic light which Maria had never seen before.

"Barty..." she whispered, taking a step forward. The young man jumped up at her voice, registering the presence of his parents for the first time. But as he stared from his father to her, Maria found no trace of any warmth or happiness in his eyes.

"Why have you come here?" he demanded, his voice rough and grating from either lack of use or screaming, probably both. His eyes bore into his namesake. "And you," his voice now dripped with deep hatred, "didn't you say that I was no son of yours? Didn't you sent me to rot away in this hell without even a moment's hesitation? What have you come here for, now? To gloat over me as I die? To celebrate the death of another of the Lord's followers?"

Bartemius spluttered with indignation. "Why, you little—"

"We have come to take you home, Barty," Maria pitched in before things could go worse. "You are going to get out of this terrible place."

His eyes showed pure scepticism, but after a minute or so, his disbelief reduced to curiosity.

"How?" he asked.

"We have a plan," Maria smiled. She gestured to her husband, who gave a curt nod before pulling out a big key from his pocket.

"The benefits of being a high-ranking Ministry official." Maria smiled, pride in her eyes. Her son's lips curled up in distaste, but she could she the greed shining in his eyes as he stared at the key.

"Here," Bartemius pulled out a vial from his robes and thrust it at his son, slipping his arm through a gap between the prison bars. "Drink it, and then I will open the door."

"What is this?" Barty eyed the potion suspiciously.

"Polyjuice, containing your mother's hair. Were going to smuggle you out that way." Maria had expected him to query about her, but to her mild disappointment, he didn't. _Of course, the prison life has broken him. How could I possibly think that he would remain caring?_

"Give me your hair," she said, and he bent his head obediently, allowing her to pluck a few strands for now, and another big clump of it for later use. She put some of the hair in the vial that she had been carrying. The potion changed to a dark, almost black, grey, which was in sharp contrast with her own powder-blue colour that he was about to drink.

Barty swallowed the potion after that, and Maria watched as his features twisted and turned, so that, after a few seconds, a carbon copy of her was standing behind the bars.

She was about to bring her own vial to her lips, when Bartemius stopped her.

"Wait," he said. She looked at him questioningly, and after staring at her for a few seconds, he brought his lips down to hers. He kissed her like he had never done before, long and deep. Finally, he pulled away, and gently caressed her cheek.

"You are a wonderful woman," he murmured. "I can't possibly say take care, can I?" He smiled ruefully. "I love you Maria, I really do."

She smiled tenderly at his words, not having the ability to reciprocate them at the moment. She kissed him softly on the forehead, and said, "Look after him, all right? For me."

He nodded with evident reluctance. Knowing that their time was short, Maria did not waste another second, and gulped down the potion. She had mentally prepared herself for its effects, but that didn't stop her from grimacing, coughing and spluttering as the terrible taste seared her throat. Before she could recover from its effects, her body was morphing, and soon it stopped, and she found herself staring at the hands of Barty Crouch Jr as she raised her own. With a flick of his wand, Bartemius altered their clothes, so that she was wearing the prison rags and her son, her own robes. The key fell into the lock even as a dementor passed by them, and despite the depression that it left in its wake, Maria couldn't help smile triumphantly; they were taking a prisoner away from right under the noses of the Azkaban guards. Dementors were blind; they could only sense humans, not see them. This was the weakness that Maria had decided to utilise. The dementors had sensed an ill an a healthy person enter the prison, now they sensed the meeting of two ill and a healthy person, and they will notice a healthy and an ill person leave. No one will know that it was Barty Crouch Jr who left the prison, not Maria Crouch.

The prison door opened, and Barty staggered out. Immediately, Bartemius hissed, "Incarcerous," and the boy (the woman to appearance) was bound with ropes around his hands and torso. Barty let out a snarl at this, which sounded peculiar in Maria's voice. Some other time, Maria would have protested, but now she knew that her husband was in charge, and said nothing.

"You need to go in," Bartemius instructed her. "I will lock the door."

Maria nodded, and walked into the damp-walled cell. Watching her cast longing looks at her son, who was at the moment her doppelganger, Bartemius smiled slightly.

"I will look after him," he said. And with that, the two left her. Barty didn't even so much as looked at her a second time once he was free, which hurt her, but she consoled herself with the news that her master plan had succeeded.

So, even as she shivered and coughed in the terrible wizarding prison and screamed and groaned as the dementors played with her mind, Maria ensured that she regularly took her daily dose of polyjuice, and kept the hope alive in her heart to live. She knew that her son was free, he was safe, he was comfortable in his house. That thought gave her peace as no other, and so when she breathed her last only a week or so after the escapade, Barty Crouch Jr's face held an expression of utter peace, something which had never been seen on the faces of Azkaban prisoners. She knew that her actions had kept her son safe, and that made her happy till the very last moment of her life.

But what she had not known was that twelve years later, her son would murder his own father in cold blood, that he would be the reason for the death of an innocent boy and the torment of another, and that he would become a major contributor in the return of the Dark Lord.

And that was where her perfect plan went wrong.

-The End-


End file.
